Friday Mid Morning December Frost
by RobinRocks
Summary: UKUS/colonial!AU: "I want for nothing that has been dictated by society – how frightfully boring to be told what is and is not to be done." Arthur kissed Alfred's hand. "No, this is perfect as it is."


SO I probably shouldn't have written this since I still have ALL SIX of those damn USUK Christmas prompts to write, lololol, but honestly I knocked this out pretty quickly and there's kind of a cool story bro behind it too (but not really).

So last weekend my old university chum and I decided we'd do a little pilgrimage back to Birmingham (England, of course – not Alabama, as someone at the University of Cincinnati thought when they saw my UB hoodie!) and some reminiscent shenanigans were had, mostly just visiting places/people we had hung around with, including the university itself. AND FOR SOME REASON the nostalgia our visit brought back prompted this from me. I think I was reminded of my very first year in American and Canadian Studies when I used to have American History at 11am on a Friday and Birmingham gets really bloody freezing at this time of year but it's like... pleasant, if that makes any sense? So, yeah, anyway, I just remembered very vividly walking to that class on a Friday (mid) morning to learn about colonial America/the American Revolution. Unfortunately I wasn't into _Hetalia_ at the time so although I did find it interesting, I didn't appreciate it quiiiiite as much as I probably would do now, which is sort of a shame, but they're still nice memories.

Being into _Hetalia_ now, of course, the nice memories quickly evolved into UKUS pr0n. C'est la vie! XD

On a related note, I would like to dedicate this fic to **PolystyreneTears **and **SweetLittleMadness** in honour of their adventure into the University of Birmingham's library earlier this month to seek out the very gay piece of canon-but-basically-USUK notebook paper I put into a book about FDR right before I left (and then bragged about in the ANs of _Once and Future_). They were very dedicated to their crusade and did actually manage to find the paper, which they borrowed for a bit and then very honourably put back (alongwithsomeotherstuff) to help me take over UB's library with USUK. It's lovely of you ladies to help an English Lit and American Studies graduate out in her duty!

I think it only fitting that this story be posted in tribute to your quest.

Friday Mid-Morning December Frost

These roads are like old veins, worn-in and wearied by the pathways of life – even though they are not really all _that_ old, not by the standards of the ancient world, by the ages of countries which existed long before the dreams of Englishmen to build a brand new England. The earth, then, and the dust are both young beneath buckled shoes of patent leather and thicker, heavier farmhand boots; and it is the way of life itself that is old and exhausted, a tried-and-tested formula for society shipped over in books and on tongues. There are towns and shops and farms and marketplaces, pubs and inns and tobacconists – and plenty of people to keep them all in business.

This is England on the outskirts of a wild and dangerous land, Old England in a New World, and history drinks to its health.

—

Alfred saw the soldiers in the main square and didn't pay them much heed; he was used to their rose-like blossoming in grey and squalid places and his heart had ceased jumping in the hope that Arthur would be one of those scarlet blooms, the centre bud in red velvet glory seeking out the plain little farmboy he had left behind. His expectations had long since died, for Arthur had been gone almost a year and he had received only a single letter from him, and even that had been several long months ago. Since June, not a word.

He understood. Arthur was busy now that he had joined the British Army. He hadn't been home since enlisting, instead shipped off with his battalion all over the thirteen colonies and back to Britain, too, he had said in that one precious letter. Of course Alfred understood. This was all Arthur had ever wanted – to wear that red coat and carry that gleaming gun, proudly defending the land of his birth—No, _more_ than that. He had wanted more than that, than _everything_. He had wanted to see the world and the army was the only way to get it. He had enlisted the very day he turned eighteen. The world was his now, adventure brimming at the edge of every footstep—

And though Alfred too desperately craved that life – anything, _anything_, to escape from the humdrum slog of life on the rural outskirts of Boston – he was only fifteen and had three years to wait before he could even be considered for enlistment. Having been born, too, in the colonies and not in the motherland, to parents of second and third-generation Anglo-American blood, undermined his credibility somewhat. He was, quite simply, barely British, a subject of the English Crown only by law, by ownership of the land he had been born on by King George III. He was no blue-blood born in Kent or Cambridge or wherever the hell it was like Arthur Kirkland.

The flash of flaxen hair, the glint of green eyes – they were not there and so Alfred didn't look for them. He had a loaf wrapped in brown paper, a bag of grain and a few yards of coarse cloth, the spoils of his Friday morning errands, and he wanted to be back in good time for lunch. It was a long walk home and he had no time to waste on wishes.

—

It is a fresh, sharp, crisp morning; cold and bracing and pleasant with breath clouding on silvery air. Every blade of brave and rare grass is edged with frost so that it does indeed become a blade, steely and crunching underfoot and following the shape of footfalls – and every cobblestone, too, and indeed each last pebble is dressed in spiderweb-silver so that the winding paths and broad roads glitter in the mid-morning sun.

The churchbells peal out across the minted sky, cloudless and pale-blue (_December_-blue with the naked trees black against its gentle plainness). It is a familiar sound, the mark of eleven o' clock in an old European tradition that this new nationality (or verge-of-nationality) has been unable to shake off, and has been present without fail over Boston, a morning-song to accompany the baking and buying of bread.

It is yet early December and the bitterness of the North American winter has not set in; January and February are always the hardest months, the coldest and darkest, and time is well-used now to prepare for the worst. The marketplaces bustle: women cloy for cloth to make winter clothes for their families, animals are bought for slaughter and Christmas fast approaches. The days will grow short and bitter after and the nights long and dark and the fire will be a welcome friend in homes long since bereft of summer's swelter.

There might be snow soon; or at least a coldness so deep that everything it touches shrivels and dies. In the meantime, it is nice to see the world turn silver, even the tiniest grains of earth dressed in finery fit for a courtier.

This Friday mid-morning is brisk and beautiful: Boston shimmers and the greatest of riches are free.

—

Arthur Kirkland was Alfred's very best friend. Three years his elder, he had an impressive pedigree: he was an only child, born in England to a very wealthy family. He had been educated in his homeland until the age of twelve, when he was sent by his parents – who didn't seem all that interested in him besides making sure that he had the best of everything – to live in the colonies with a rich landowner uncle who hailed from Scotland. He had been home-schooled there by a Frenchman (whom Arthur didn't much like) and had been in line for a place at Oxford back in England once he was eighteen. Perhaps it was Francis Bonnefoy's fault, perhaps not, but either way Arthur hadn't appeared to be all that enamoured of education by the time he was nearing his eighteenth birthday and instead had his parents buy him into the army as an officer.

None of these facts were the reason that Alfred knew him. Quite frankly, though perhaps due to the fact that he was an only child, privileged but neglected, Arthur Kirkland was a serious oddball. He didn't have any friends, barely spoke and wandered around by himself as though in a daze. There was a small stream babbling along at the bottom of the farm Alfred worked at with his father and twin brother and Arthur had gravitated towards it, sitting there with a book (or often nothing, just staring into space) for hours at a time. He had been doing it long before Alfred came to work at the farm at the age of eleven, so much so that his presence was well-known and whispered about between the farmhands, who laughed about that strange stuck-up rich loner who never reacted no matter what you shouted over the fence at him.

Alfred, who was always up for a challenge, took it upon himself to befriend this oddity; and was almost defeated by how difficult it was to get even a single word out of the moody fourteen year old sitting sullenly on the bank. Eventually, however, his persistence had paid off; perhaps Arthur had simply been ground down by him but by the time Alfred was twelve and Arthur fifteen, they were fast friends. Arthur came to visit him at the farm as work was winding down for the day, standing rather like a peacock in his fine clothes amongst dirty, resentful farmhands in rags.

Alfred saw then that he would make a good soldier. He stood with his back straight and no insult, no matter how filthy, hurled at him had any impact whatsoever. He had the iciest demeanour that Alfred had ever come across.

They went for long walks together and talked about everything and nothing. Their lives were worlds apart and they had very little in common but it didn't seem to matter. Arthur brought Alfred home with him sometimes to show him his books and models; Alfred admired Arthur's possessions without jealousy because he was perfectly aware that although Arthur had everything he could possibly want, material belongings didn't make him happy. He stayed for dinner often, too, to the disgust of tutor Francis and the hearty approval of the Scottish uncle, who (on closer inspection) appeared to be a little bit mad.

Arthur's presence was like another world, an escape into a realm that Alfred had been granted passage to by being his friend, a glimpse into the lives of the wealthy, of the fortunate, of the first-born British. So enchanted was he that sometimes he stayed out half the night with Arthur, listening to the elder boy read him books by moonlight in the middle of the woods, wandering with him amongst the tombstones in the churchyard to look for romantic names, hanging around the taverns that soldiers frequented to sigh enviously at them. Arthur had been born into a level of society that required no responsibility, no real input, and so he was free to flit about and indulge his eccentric longings for adventure.

And Arthur _was_ eccentric, really and truly odd, and Alfred simply adored him. His friendship with him made his parents worry – that rich boy was strange, they thought, to be so interested in a simple farmhand like their son, and they wondered if he had an ulterior motive. They didn't like Alfred coming back at two o' clock in the morning twittering about Shakespeare's _The Tempest _as though he was under some sort of spell. After all, Alfred had never been properly educated – he could barely read, too lazy to learn – and he'd always been rather easily led, naïve and trusting.

They were glad when the Kirkland boy turned eighteen and went off with the army. It would put him to better use than mooning about in graveyards reciting poetry to their foolish son.

Of course, by that time Alfred was fifteen and things had changed considerably.

—

There was a soldier standing at the door, a scarlet stain flowering against the wood, as Alfred approached the house. He didn't pay him much heed – there were always soldiers everywhere. They'd passed that Quartering Act back in 1765, almost ten years ago, after all; Alfred's own family had had several to live with them for brief stints over the years. This was probably another one showing up bag-and-baggage to demand room and board.

Alfred headed straight towards the barn to put in the grain. He was warm from walking, his muscles tingling, though his breath still sparked on the chilly air. He heard the soldier start to move behind him, boots crackling on the frosted ground, and sighed inwardly. It wasn't his house, it wasn't his decision, it wasn't his—

"Oi! Are you just going to ignore me after I came all this way to see you?"

Alfred dropped his armful as he whirled, his heart in his mouth, half-convinced that he was just hearing things, that it couldn't possibly be—

Arthur shot him a look of puzzlement, clearly disarmed by Alfred's response, if it could even be called that. He arched an eyebrow and hitched his rifle up on his shoulder as Alfred stared at him.

"Well, honestly," he grumbled, looking aside. "Please restrain yourself from leaping upon me in joy."

Arthur had changed. He certainly looked a lot older even though he wasn't even nineteen yet; experience instead had altered his face, which had been round and babyish before but now seemed... harder, somehow. His hair was a less flagrant shade of yellow than it had been when Alfred had last seen it, though he supposed that that was perhaps the winter months, as his own gold tended to darken after summer's end. He was paler, thinner – yet he stood taller than he ever had before, even with his nose in the air at the remarks of catty farmhands, and his scarlet coat with gleaming brass buttons blossomed on his slender frame. He looked content, satisfied, which Alfred had never seen before; he had been _happy_, of course, in Alfred's presence, but never quite sated with life as it was.

It was perfectly understandable. Alfred didn't have much to offer him, not when Arthur could pretty much have anything he wanted.

Alfred threw his arms around him.

"Wh—I just... What are you doing here?" he rushed out into Arthur's ear, squeezing tight. Arthur smelt like gunpowder and salt. "Are... are you here for quartering?"

"Unfortunately not." Arthur patted Alfred's back. "We are only in Boston for part of the afternoon. We are on our way down to Philadelphia, as a matter of fact."

Alfred exhaled, disappointed, but did not let go.

"Can you not stay for one night?" he wheedled. "It has been so long since I have seen you!"

"That would be quite impossible, I regret to inform you," Arthur replied gently. "We will simply have to make do."

"Did you sneak away?"

"I did. I haven't long, I fear."

Alfred nodded and pulled away.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, unable to resist a grin.

"Of course."

"Have you missed me, Arthur?"

"You know I have." Arthur bent down and picked up the loaf of bread, handing it back to Alfred. "Now stop being cheeky."

Alfred stuck out his tongue, scooping up the grain and the cloth, too.

"It was an honest question," he said airily. He nodded towards the barn. "Come on, I need to put the grain in."

He trotted the rest of the way to the barn, light in his step, glancing back several times to check that Arthur was following him. It was fun to be leading the dance for once and his breath puffed happily as he slid back the lock on the barn door with a heavy ironclad promise.

The barn wasn't much warmer, the few thin windows frosted over so that the sun clouded through the glass; it was darker in here, private with all the animals out in the fields or the marketplaces, and smelt of hay, sweet and stuffy. Alfred tossed the grain onto the pile as Arthur slithered in after him, light of step and careful like a cat. They were always cautious.

"I have missed you so," Arthur said behind him, his voice low and lyrical; he had crept closer, flush in his crimson coat at Alfred's back as the younger pushed the barn door firmly shut.

Alfred swallowed, his face burning, his heart pounding; he could feel Arthur's breath on the back of his neck, startlingly hot after the December chill, and hurriedly threw the bread and cloth to safety in one of the piles of hay, turning in the same motion just in time to be seized by the shoulders and pushed against the door.

Arthur never took any prisoners; his words were sometimes floaty and fleeting but his kisses never were, Alfred often shocked into submission by how rough he could be when it suited him. He was a demanding lover and pushed Alfred around even though he was smaller than him – but Alfred didn't mind. It was a thrill to be shoved up against a wall and kissed until his lips were bruised; he was poor, uneducated, clumsy, a plain ten-a-penny farmboy, barely heeded and easily replaceable. It was nice to feel so wanted – to be so wanted by someone like Arthur Kirkland.

They melded in the silence, kissing, touching, relearning – their mingled breath clouding between teeth as they pulled back and then pressed mouths firmly together again. There was heat between them, premature and desperate and taboo (just as it had been all the times before). Alfred shifted, inching forward to gain a little ground, and Arthur's fingers slid against his neck, warm and dry and supple, and then down over his chest and belly to his breeches, the motion practiced and liquid. His fingers spread and his palm cupped and pushed and Alfred's knees buckled.

"We haven't long," Arthur muttered breathlessly; his other hand went to the back of Alfred's neck, caressing above his filthy shirt collar, and he guided him towards the hay.

That was a weird skill of Arthur's. He could walk backwards without stumbling, without glancing to see where he was going. They had gone on long walks together like that, Arthur going backwards so that he could talk to Alfred face-to-face.

Arthur ducked under his arm and their positions twisted, overbalancing, and they tumbled into the hay together, sinking deep into the harvest's bower. Alfred laughed and wriggled and Arthur, on top, stroked his hair with a smile. This was a place for ploughboys to sneak with village girls, to lead them to this straw bed and hitch up their ragged skirts – and for soldiers, too, should they be quartered in the area.

(—But never ploughboys and soldiers together.)

Alfred wrapped his legs around Arthur and they kissed amidst the clattering of the rifle and powder and pack; Arthur shed all the heavy add-ons, keeping nothing but the jar of grease for his gun pressed into his palm. Everything was quick, precise, long eased into a practiced routine. They _never_ had long, in fact, and had learnt to savour what they could. What Alfred wouldn't have given for a single night spent in the warmth and safety of Arthur's bed but the risk of getting caught was much too high, the price much too great. It was all they could do to steal moments like these on frosty mid-mornings, in the arms of summer dusks and the muted blues of almost-midnights.

Besides, this was how Arthur seemed to like it best.

["Were I only a girl," Alfred had sighed two nights before Arthur's eighteenth birthday, "we could be married and it would be legitimate." Then he had flushed and added hurriedly: "Ah, th-that is... I know that I am far below your station—"

Arthur had snorted.

"I would never want that. It has nothing to do with illegitimacy on the grounds of unwed men and women, nor men sleeping with other men." He had looked at Alfred very intently. "I want for nothing that has been dictated by society – how frightfully boring to be _told_ what is and is not to be done." He had kissed Alfred's hand. "No, this is perfect as it is."]

Arthur's fingers were inside him, slick with gun grease, writhing and spreading and pushing; and Alfred tipped his head back and groaned at the stretch because it had been so long. These sorts of things were Arthur's trophies, his little awards to himself for slithering free of the restraints of polite society; acting like a perfect, trained gentleman of the upper classes while his prim smile bragged of fingering that low-born farm urchin he was always spending his time with—

And Alfred had thought, once or twice, perhaps more, that maybe Arthur was just using him to fulfil his eccentric little games; but then he remembered that it was not _Arthur_ who had pestered _him_ for friendship, it had been the other way around. Arthur's odd behaviour, then, was born out of boredom with his own life and subsequent fascination with Alfred, who hadn't properly gone to school, who had spent most of his life out of doors working for a living. Alfred's mere existence – and their friendship – had made Arthur see that there was more to life than eating with the correct silverware and knotting a cravat.

It was just unfortunate that Arthur's position in life had enabled him to escape whilst Alfred was stuck where he was.

Arthur's fingers were long out now; and he shunted his hips once, twice, to bury himself in Alfred's body. Alfred quivered under him, biting at his lip, the hay sinking beneath them.

"Are you alright?" Arthur was already moving, holding Alfred by the waist; his mouth was at his neck and he breathed the words, only half-questioning, against Alfred's throat.

Alfred gave a grunt and nodded. It wasn't unpleasant. He clutched at Arthur's wool coat as they shuddered against one another; he was hard, had been hard since the moment Arthur had slipped behind him into the barn, at the mere promise of his presence, and Arthur's belly rubbed against his cock as he thrusted. He was still dressed, of course – they both were – and the open facings of Arthur's pristine red coat were what gave him the friction. How strange a situation.

"What's it like?" Arthur hissed.

"What's... what like?" Alfred arched as Arthur reacquainted himself with that favourite angle of his; ah, _that_ was better, that was much better—

"Being fucked... by a soldier?" Arthur grinned, nipping sharply at Alfred's exposed neck.

"Y-you can find out... when I join up," Alfred replied. He wound his arms around Arthur's neck, shaking. He never lasted very long when Arthur started moving like this.

"Very well." Arthur laughed and didn't say anything more after that.

When Arthur did talk, of course, he said very odd things; he told strange stories and recited peculiar poems. Once, on a morning like this, sharp and frosted and bright, he had told Alfred a tale about a fairy land where time did not move. There was no regret and there were no consequences because things had no impact on the future nor the present nor the past. There was no death, no sickness, no sadness. There were no class boundaries and there was no work to do. It was a land which had rejected the designs of old society – this was a new world where it did not matter, where nothing whatsoever mattered at all. Everything was just as you remembered it, just as you wanted it.

That world would be like this: just the two of them, alone and as close as they could be, on a frosted Friday mid-morning in December. The day and date and time were as good as any, after all.

"You ejaculated on my bloody coat," Arthur grumbled, pulling back.

Alfred caught his breath, sprawled in the hay.

"Sorry." He winced; it sounded so flippant. "I truly _am_ sorry, Arthur. Give it to me, I will take it into the house and wash it at once—"

"Do not trouble yourself – it is on the white." Arthur pulled out a handkerchief and started to rub the small splash off. "It is my own fault. I should have taken it off." He exhaled, his breath snowy in the pale sunlight. "It is just so cold."

"Do you think?" Alfred righted his breeches. "I think this is rather mild. I suppose England must be warmer than here, though."

"Mm." Arthur sat next to him, burrowing into the hay and looking up at the barn's ceiling. "Alfred... do you really intend to join up once you are of age?"

"Of course!" Alfred shot him an incredulous look. "You cannot really think that I will be content to rot on farms for the rest of my life! I want adventure too, Arthur!"

Arthur sighed and looked away.

"I can certainly appreciate that," he said, "but it is just that... well, you might not want to rush into anything."

"Says Captain Kirkland," Alfred pouted. "It is all very well for you to say!"

Arthur shook his head.

"It isn't that. I understand perfectly, Alfred, as you well know, but... there has been a little bit of trouble in the colonies recently. Some of the citizens are none too happy with taxation issues and there is talk back in London... well, of there perhaps being a war."

"Between Britain and her own colonies?"

"I know it sounds preposterous but with the way things are going..."

"Would that not be a civil war?"

"That or a revolution. I suppose it depends on what standing you consider the colonies to have – but if it _does_ come to that, Alfred, your loyalty will be forced to lie one way or another."

Alfred snorted.

"I know I am British only by the barest drop of blood," he said coolly, "but that does not make me a traitor to the crown. What else would I consider myself? _American_? There is no such thing."

Arthur shot him a pointed look.

"Is there not?" he asked lightly.

Alfred pursed his lips and nudged at him reproachfully.

"Sometimes I do wish that you would keep your strange ideas to yourself."

"But only sometimes." Arthur reached for his discarded pack and pulled out a leather flask. "Well, we'll see, my lad. We'll see soon enough."

"Are you worried we would end up fighting on opposite sides?" Alfred inquired frostily, pressing the issue. "Is that it, Arthur?"

"Not worried, exactly." Arthur unscrewed the cap of his flask and took a short knock-back. "Sounds rather romantic, all things considered – freedom driving a wedge between lovers, I mean." He held out the flask. "Rum? Warms you up."

"No thank you." Alfred pushed it away. "It is far too early in the day for such things."

"Perhaps – but it doesn't give you dysentery."

Arthur took another, more thoughtful drink and put the flask away again; they sat in silence for a while, Alfred knotting his fingers together.

"You only wrote to me once," he said finally. "You said you would write at least once a _month_."

"Alfred, you can barely read."

"That is not the point and you know it! You promised!" Alfred scowled. "Besides, I got Matthew to help me with the parts I had trouble with."

Arthur laughed and pulled his pack towards himself properly, rifling through it and coming up with a handful of neatly-inked envelopes.

"Our courier did not partake of quite enough rum," he said, holding them out. "Poor bugger died of dysentery a few months back. I had no way of getting these to you. Some of them are somewhat out of date now but I hope you will enjoy reading them just the same."

Alfred took them, flipping through their thick parchment envelopes, all bearing the same name and address – his own – in Arthur's beautiful private school handwriting. There were seven of them, all sealed, waiting to be read. It made him feel immensely proud and just a little bit more significant to have these letters, to see his name written in expensive ink with such grace and care.

"I read your letter every day, you know," he said shyly, holding the envelopes to his chest. "It is like... having a little of you still with me. I cannot have my own adventure yet but... reading of yours in your own words to me makes me feel that you have shared a little of your world with me." He bit at his lip. "N-not that you have not done that already! I... I simply mean that—"

"I know what you mean – and I hope that my further words will hold that world for you still, for I cannot stay with you much longer." Arthur touched Alfred's face fleetingly and then was off the hay, dusting himself down and gathering his things. "Oh." He paused, glancing at the letters. "But perhaps you might try to read these ones yourself without the help of your brother? I think it will be good for you." He slung his rifle back over his shoulder. "It will be good for us both."

Alfred gave a numb nod, getting up himself. He searched for the bread and the cloth and shook them clean.

"We had better not be seen to be leaving here together," Arthur said absently, getting his attire back in proper order. "I will go first."

"A-alright."

"Now do not work yourself to the bone," Arthur went on, turning to him, "and do be safe. Know that my thoughts are ever with you, my dear."

Alfred felt his eyes beginning to water as Arthur leaned in towards him; he wiped fiercely at them but they welled over again as the kiss lingered. The letters crumpled in his hands when their mouths parted.

"I love you," Alfred whined, embracing him tightly.

"And I you," Arthur replied gently. "You are the most precious thing in all the world to me because you showed me that there _are_ things in the world that are precious. More than anything, more than perceived adventure on far-off shores, I live for these moments with you."

He kissed Alfred on the forehead, pulled out of his arms and was gone, the winter sunlight streaming in through the barn doorway in his crimson wake.

Alfred shuddered for a moment, clutching at his marketplace spoils and his greater prizes, his letters, trying to give Arthur time to get away. The cold air crept into the barn, filling out the space their lovemaking had occupied, rinsing it away beneath December's fresh caress. When at long last he slunk out, unable to stand it a moment longer and picking some hay from his dishevelled hair, he found Matthew feeding the chickens on the frosted ground by the front door. He smiled brightly and hid the letters behind his back.

His twin frowned at him but said nothing, lowering his eyes again. Matthew never said anything.

Alfred turned away from him without a word and crunched across the silver yard to the fence, blackened wood aglitter, to lean over it and watch Arthur's red back on the richest road in Boston.

The clock in the town carried, striking midday, and the moment was over.


End file.
